Endless Perspectives
by Ananke Adrasteia
Summary: Crossover with Harry Potter: seven characters, seven Endless, the works. Snape and Morpheus share an archetype, Dumbledore chats with Destiny and so on...
1. Chapter 1

**Severus Snape and the King of All Night's Dreaming**

It was the last day of August, 1991, and Severus Snape was dreaming.

Severus Snape rarely slept, and even more rarely dreamt. There were, in his opinion, other methods of dealing with stray thoughts and memories than dreaming; safer methods, methods which allowed one control over the process of sorting the wheat from the chaff: the memories which Severus would present to any half-competent Legilimens who attempted to invade his mind from the memories which had to be buried deep in the dark recesses of the subconscious–

Nevertheless, it was the last day of August, 1991, and Severus Snape was dreaming.

It would be a long time before he would dream – or, indeed, sleep – again, he knew; and he wanted to use the opportunity to do so while he still could afford it.

In his dream, Severus Snape was standing in front of a gate. Beyond the gate, there was a tall staircase, made of white, marble steps; the staircase led to a castle, barely visible in the distance through the mists in which the castle was shrouded.

Severus studied the gate carefully. Then, he folded his arms and sneered.

"Do you _really_ think that you can fool me with ivory?" he asked the world in general. "Where is the _real_ gate?"

"Here," he heard someone reply.

Severus twirled around, wand at the ready, and saw himself.

Or, upon closer inspection, not _quite_ himself. The appearance of the man who was standing in front of the other gate – the _real_ gate, the gate of horn – differed from Severus' own in one very important aspect: while the eyes of Severus, black and brilliant, were essentially human in appearance, the man's eyes were nothing but two deep pools of shadow. Besides that, the two might be exact twins; even the other man's attire was an exact copy of Severus' robe.

Behind the man and the gate of horn lay the entrance to the castle. It was guarded by three creatures. One was a gryphon; the other a serpent; the third one was a thestral, the same as Severus' Patronus. They watched Severus closely, but for now, did not react. Not even the gryphon, and this came as much a surprise as it was a relief.

The man in front of the gate of horn continued, unmindful of the undergoing careful inspection of his persona, "It is fortunate that I can welcome you at last to my kingdom, Severus Snape. I have almost come to fear that I would have to seek you out in the waking world. I see," he added, "that I need not introduce myself–"

"No. You do not," Severus answered curtly. Inwardly, he was seething: even the voice of the man sounded the same as his own. "Any imbecile who has read the _Paginarum Fulvarum _would know who you are, Prince of Stories and Master of Dreams."

The man looked Severus evenly in the eyes, "Well spoken," he said, "Half-Blood Prince and Master of Hogwarts."

"What is this to mean? And what is the purpose of this– masquerade?" Severus nearly hissed out; by now, he barely contained his anger. First, the assumed looks; and now, the name-calling–

However, one did not insult Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, in his own kingdom.

"Regrettably, you will understand before soon," Dream replied, still speaking in Severus' own voice, "Rest assured that we shall speak of this, and many other matters, before we part: we _must_, I owe it to you. For now, do walk with me, Professor Snape."

In silence, they both crossed the gate of horn and entered the castle; then, they crossed many a hall of the castle, each hall different and each one filled with dreamlike visions. They went past the library which housed the books as of yet unwritten, and never to be written, but all-too-oft dreamt of; the librarian interrupted his work and looked at them in surprise; and then, looked in equal surprise at the book he was holding, a book which his master had been reading intently for quite some time before he had returned it. Severus Snape did not know that, and would never learn that, but the book which the librarian was holding held his own name as its author; it was a work on Potions which would take him no less than seven years to complete, but which would change the field forever–

At last, they entered a dining-hall. Therein stood a long table, with two places set. Morpheus took one; Severus sat in the other; then, the table and the room shrunk, so that they could talk effortlessly.

"There is much of which you must be made aware, Severus Snape," said the King of Dreams, "A great deal of history for me to speak of. Perhaps you would care to eat or drink something while I speak?"

There was a brief silence as Severus Snape considered the offer, and the truth behind the offer. At last, he said tentatively, "Once, when I was younger – much younger," he corrected himself almost instantly, "I used to dream of–"

He did not finish: there was no need to. The latkes appeared on his plate, freshly fried into the perfect gold colour, smelling just as they ought to; just as they used to smell when Mother used to make them, in that other time which had passed with his introduction to Hogwarts and its atrocious, elf-prepared fodder.

Severus looked into his own face, seeking signs of disapprobation of the presence of plebeian foodstuff on a monarch's table; but there were none. In an oddly human gesture, Dream had put both of his elbows on the table, and had rested his head in the palms of his hands; evidently, Severus thought with no small surprise, he was unsure himself of how to proceed–

Abruptly, Dream raised his head, and looked straight into Severus' eyes; his face was blank and expressionless, just as Severus' when he was Occluding. "Do eat, Master Snape," he said, conjuring a glass of white wine for each of them with a wave of his hand, "You must remember this conversation when you return to the waking world; eating my food and drinking my drink will make it so." With that said, he turned his eyes away again.

Severus finally took a bit of a latke. It tasted just as he had expected: perfectly. This was, after all, the stuff of which dreams were made–

As he chewed the food, he studied his companion at the table. Morpheus; Oneiros; the Sandman; the Dreamweaver; the Shaper of Forms; the King of Dreams and the Monarch of the Sleeping Marshes, His Darkness, Dream of the Endless – the _Librum Fulvarum Paginarum_ mentioned only some names of the... entity who personified and ruled over the eponymous aspect of mortals' existence. Dream was said to be proud, cruel, easily offended and quick to anger; and also, deeply conscientious and unusually devoted to his duties–

At that moment, however, he appeared to Severus to be – lost. Lost; here, in the heart of the Dreaming, in the seat of his power–

That, and all the allusions to some history which Dream owed to the Potions Master – not even to mention the fact that the Oneiromancer was wearing his face and speaking in his voice – made Severus himself apprehensive. What was his business with Dream? Or, to put it more correctly, what was _Dream's_ business with _Severus Snape_?

As if in reply to Severus' thoughts – although surely not in reply to them, Severus made sure of that – Dream quietly started to speak.

"On the tenth of June of the year nineteen-sixteen, a wizard by the name of Roderick Burgess–"

He paused for a moment, seeking recognition in Severus' face; finding none, he continued:

"–performed a ritual described in the Magdalene Grimoire. Its aim was to trap my elder sister–"

"_What_?" Some fool actually attempted to imprison _Death_? Even _Voldemort_ had not gone that far–

Dream looked straight at him again, and continued, "The ritual failed; or rather, to be precise, it did not bring the expected result. My sister was not imprisoned. _I_ was."

Ignoring Severus' look of incredulity, he continued, "For the better part of this century, I remained imprisoned; I broke free only three years ago, in 1989. Once free, I exercised my revenge on Roderick's son, Alexander – Roderick himself had died, and so, escaped my wrath–" A grimace crossed Dream's face; Severus' own face. The Potions Master wondered what happened to Alexander Burgess; whatever it was, it would not be pleasant. '_The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children_,' he thought; and then, shuddered. The Potter brat would be starting Hogwarts the following day; suddenly, he wished that the conversation never finished, that he could remain in the Dreaming–

Dream's voice – his own voice – recalled him to the conversation. "That, however, is not important to the matter whereof we shall speak today, Master of Potions. What _is_ important is that, while I remained imprisoned in the house of Roderick Burgess, I could not properly fulfil my duties. This occasioned multiple calamities across all planes–"

Dream broke again, and took a sip of wine from his glass. "Eventually," he picked up in a very different tone, "the powers I am to control found themselves other outlets. Certain – individuals – have become endowed with powers which, if the matters had taken their proper course, would have lain within my exclusive domain–"

"Am I to believe, King Dream, that my presence here is linked to that unfortunate happenstance?" Severus asked, cutting to the point.

For all it looked like – and Severus knew his own face well enough to see _what_ it looked like – Dream was actually grateful for this brusqueness.

"Yes, Professor Snape," he said, "A greatest wrong and a most unnatural crime has been committed against you. You have inherited – not one, but _multiple_ aspects of my function; and within those, the aspect that is the most fundamental to it, the one that lies at the very crux of my existence–" His voice broke again; and then, suddenly, he added, "No mortal should be forced to endure this burden; no mortal–"

Severus looked at the pained expression on Dream's face and probed further, "And so, you have sought me out in order to relieve me of this... burden?"

"I would that I could," Dream answered, with such sudden vehemence that Snape could not help but believe in his words, "But I _cannot_. If only I still had the Ruby, I could collect the mythopoietic sand that clings to your heart and soul– But the Ruby is shattered and gone..."

His voice trailed off as Dream was lost again in his private thoughts. Severus Snape finished the latkes, took one final sip of the delicious wine in his glass, and abruptly pushed his plate away from himself, making enough of a noise to drive his host's attention back to himself.

"Then pray tell me, King Dream: why am I here?"

"You are here, Professor Snape, because I must explain you how the spark of my power within you shall affect your existence," Dream answered, visibly collecting himself. "I owe it to you; it is the least I can do – even if, alas, it is all I can do. May I offer you a walk in one of my private gardens?"

Severus assented with a nod; they both left the room, which, as Severus noticed when he turned around for a moment, disappeared behind them. In Dream's hold, all rooms were Rooms of Requirement.

They walked down several halls, in silence again; eventually, they came out of the castle into a beautiful garden, fashioned in no style Severus could recognise. He wondered for a moment what mad horticulturist's dream could have spawned this place; because it was clear that not even magic could recreate this place in the waking world.

"Do you know where the boundaries of my domain lie, Master Snape?"

"I know that you are the Shaper of Dreams, the patron of poets and prophets, Lord Morpheus," Severus replied carefully.

"_You_ cannot shape dreams. Nor are you a poet or a prophet."

It was definitely not a question; Severus accepted the statement in silence.

"You have never written a line of poetry in your life, not even in your teenage years – which, I should know, is a rare feat. And you have always scorned Divination in school."

That, too, was true. Severus was once again fast growing apprehensive of his interlocutor's omniscience. Although, to be fair, he thought, Dream himself had previously confided his private matters to Severus; matters of which he could not have found it easy to speak. It would hardly be credible that he would touch upon Severus' history without reason.

"_After_ school, however, you have become involved in a certain affair regarding a prophecy–"

Severus gasped; no, this was getting too close to his comfort zone–

Dream continued, unmindful of Severus' unease, "You have revealed its content – or a part of its content – to one of its subjects; thus assuming, however indirectly, the mantle of a prophet."

Startled, Severus attempted to ask for further explanations; however, Dream did not allow him to speak, continuing his own talk, "As for your lack of poetic inclinations – I doubt that the majority of Hogwarts' alumni should ever forget the speech with which you introduce them into the mysteries of the subject you teach; or your carefully phrased comments on their essays into Potions–"

Severus smirked. Yes, that much, at least, fit: he had always been proud of his gift of elocution, even if he could only ever exercise it on the dimwits he taught at Hogwarts–

"Although, of course, Potions, howsoever you might excel at them, are not your favourite subject matter, Severus Snape. This title is reserved for what you," the slightest trace of contempt appeared in Dream's voice, "_wizards_, call the Dark Arts. Tell me, Severus Snape, why do you love what so many of your fellows fear and hate?"

The eyes of the Potions Master narrowed. Even in his dreams, it appeared, he was to account for the sole passion of his life. Well, so _be_ it!

"The Dark Arts, King Dream," he said, "are many, varied, ever-changing and eternal. They are not for the common fool to meddle in; they call for both intelligence and imagination, and demand constant presence and readiness of mind; and they promise a quick – or sometimes, a _slow_ – and painful death for one who approaches them heedless of the risks–"

He interrupted suddenly.

"I see," he said simply, "Yes, at last I see of what you might speak, Lord Morpheus."

"No," Dream answered, incongruously sadly, "You do not; not yet. If your chance involvement in matters of a mantic nature, your way with words and your inclination towards the unfixed and the mutating were all you have received of me, this conversation would not be taking place; I would gladly let you live your life till its due conclusion– Alas: it is not to be so."

"I am the Shaper of Dreams, Master Snape," he continued after a momentary break, which Severus filled for his own purpose with wondering if Dream would ever reach the point to which he had constantly alluded since the beginning of their conversation. "Dreams are illusions, half-truths or complete untruths which nevertheless reflect the truth, whether a truth one might admit to oneself in the waking world, or, much more often, a truth which one will _not_. Dreams are the dark mirror of unreality which reflects the reality– Have you not heard it spoken that the Endless personify not only the aspect of existence which they are, but also the _opposite_ of what they are?"

There was another pause, and then, Dream continued, "Through dreams, mortals are forced to confront with the side of them which they would much rather remained hidden; for only through that confrontation, they can change and evolve. That, in short, is my function, my duty; my raison d'être–"

"I effect _change_. Through dreams, stories and prophecies, I effect _change_. Not as cataclysmic as my irresponsible younger brother," a grimace of disgust crossed Dream's face, "but I do. But you already know this, do you not, Professor Snape?"

"I believe... I can imagine," Severus said weakly.

"Good," Dream stated flatly, "Because – to a very limited extent, mind it! – _you_ will fulfil this function, whether willingly or not. You may attempt to prevent the revelation of a truth; it will be revealed nonetheless; you may be present in a place by accident; your very presence will serve as a pretext to occasion a change. You will speak truth, half-truth, or lie; and in lying, you will _still_ reveal a truth – or a side to a truth which all others will have had by the time forgotten, or will have chosen to keep hidden. It has already begun, years ago, with the prophecy and all that resulted from its revelation; it will become worse."

Severus paled. "_Potter_," he stammered.

Dream paid him no heed. Now turned away from Severus, he continued – now that the topic had been breached, words seemed to come easily at last to the Prince of Stories–

"And that is not yet _all_, Severus Snape. There is one more aspect of the matter to be considered..."

"What _now_?" Severus nearly screamed out in anguish, "Is it not yet _enough_?"

"As I have once told that inestimable compatriot of yours, Master Shakespeare," Dream continued, still not looking at Severus, "the Prince of Stories is, in his fashion, an island: whilst all around him change, in stories, and oft, _through_ stories, he himself has no story; he may not have a story; he may not change–"

"You, too, will _effect_ change, Severus Snape; _you_ shall _never_ change, not until the day my sister meets you."

The words were stated with all the finality of a verdict; Dream twirled around, and Severus once again looked into his own face, and heard spoken in his own voice:

"I am Dream of the Endless; I am defined by my function. My duty and my responsibility are enough to justify my existence. But you– I pity you, you poor thing: _you_ are a mortal. To be denied the opportunity to grow and mature– It is the greatest crime and wrong that can be committed against your kind–"

Dream slumped down to a park bench, and hid his face in his hands again; it was as if all his energy had left him with the last words he had spoken.

Severus Snape folded his arms, and looked coolly at the figure curled up below him. His black eyes glittered with anger: being on the receiving end of someone's pity had never gone well with him; and having been called a 'poor thing' certainly had not improved his mood.

"I neither need nor want your pity, Dream-King," he said, "If it is even me, poor mortal thing that I am, that you pity– Are you not sure that in pitying me, you do not pity _yourself_, Dream of the Endless?"

The figure on the bench looked up, straight into Severus' eyes; a single star glittered in the deep pools of shadow. "Careful, Master Snape," Oneiros warned, "_You_ may, to a large extent, be _me_; but _I_ am not _you_. Do not _dare_ attempt to ascribe to me your mortal convictions–"

And, then, suddenly, he was on his feet; and looking like Severus Snape no longer. Now, he was slightly taller, and his black hair was no longer a curtain, but an unruly mop on his head. Instead of a wizard's robe, he was now wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. His face was also different; only his eyes stayed exactly the same–

In short, but for the eyes, he looked precisely like James Potter had when Severus Snape had last seen him.

"_Matthew_," he called out, not moving his eyes from the Potions Master.

There was a flutter of wings, and then, a raven appeared. It perched on top of the bench, and said, "Yes, boss?"

"Matthew," Dream said, "This is Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts. If ever you hear from a raven that he requires your assistance, you are to lend it without delay–"

"Master Snape," he bowed slightly his head in the Potions Master's direction, "This audience is over. If ever in the waking world you find yourself in _need_ or _want_ of my advice, call to the nearest raven. Beware, though, that a King's time is precious, and pray do not waste it on trifles."

"His Darkness may rest assured that I most certainly will _not_," Severus replied, with deadly calm. The raven looked from the one to the other, and sharply took in breath.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord of Dreams," the Potions Master continued, impeccably polite, "Can you advise me on one last matter – how am I to leave your kingdom?"

The twin pools of shadow watched him calmly; and then, the King of All Night's Dreaming said simply:

"_Wake up_, Severus Snape–

-----

The wake of Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, took place in January, 1993. At that time, a monster was said to be on the prowl in Hogwarts, released from the Chamber of Secrets by the Heir of Slytherin. Severus Snape walked the corridors of the castle night after night, in a vain attempt to stop the Heir and the Heir's monster. He did not sleep; did not dream; did not wake.

He had his duties and responsibilities to take care of.

-----

Disclaimers and notes: (1) The Endless and _The Sandman_ series of graphic novels belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC Comics. Everything _Harry Potter_ belongs to JK Rowling. I really am not making money out of this story. Just a bit of mostly harmless fun.

(2) In the _Sandman_ timeline, this story takes place between _The Season of Mists_ and _A Game of You_.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Meeting with Destiny**

It was the next night after the night of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament; the next night after the night which had wrought such calamitous events onto the whole Wizarding World – the return incorporation of Voldemort and the reassembly of the Death Eaters–

Earlier that day, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, had met with the parents of Cedric Diggory, the bright Hufflepuff boy who had died the previous night. The Headmaster had talked to them and had consoled them to the very best of his abilities, telling them that he would do whatever lay within his competences to prevent Cedric's sacrifice from going to waste and Cedric's memory from being lost. Cedric _would_ be remembered, the Headmaster had told them.

Now, as the night was falling, Albus set out for an entirely different meeting altogether. Although, he must admit it to himself just a bit, perhaps its purpose was not to be altogether different from the purpose of the morning's reunion; however, with one significant difference. This time, perhaps, it was Albus Dumbledore himself who sought consolation, of a sort.

The enchanted hedge labyrinth which had been grown for the Third Task would serve his purposes perfectly, he decided. The traps and puzzles which had been created to test the mettle of the Champions had been already deactivated, and the magical creatures had been taken out of the maze, long before Albus stepped into the shadow of the twenty-foot hedge.

----

Albus Dumbledore rarely thought of the matters of the Endless. Apart from Death, whom he considered to be a most lovely young lady – indeed, at times he thought that he should introduce her to poor Severus; perhaps she would exert some positive effect on him–

Apart from Death, in short, he had never met any of them in person. He had, of course, read the _Librum Fulvarum Paginarum_; and he knew as much of them as was possible for a human to know – which was little or, rather, next to nothing at all. But this he did know: that one reached the abode of Destiny through a labyrinth, and _only_ through a labyrinth; because all the labyrinths met there, where Destiny, the eldest of the Endless, walked eternally through his garden lit by the red light of a dying sun.

And so, Albus Dumbledore stepped into the hedge maze; and then, walked forward and forward; on and on. He was slightly surprised – though not overly so – when the directions the Lady Death had given him one day, when she had visited him for a tea and a sherbet lemon, started to prove true; when the walls of the maze started to change their texture and shape. He suppressed a sudden urge to use the Four-Point Spell to see what results it would bring; it would not do to unduly irritate his host before their first meeting.

Of course, his host would have known of their meeting – and of its resolution – even now, even before it happened. In a way, the fact that the meeting would take place at all – that his host was letting him enter his realm at all – was perhaps a fortunate augury in its own regard.

Or, perhaps it was not. Perhaps the fact of their meeting had been, indeed, written; but perhaps it had also been written that the meeting would bring no meaningful resolution–

Still, Albus thought, he might try. Harry was, for now, under Madam Pomfrey's care; Severus was off to meet with Voldemort. All that Albus could do for now was to take care that the Ministry did not attempt to hush up Voldemort's recorporation–

He crossed another corner, and emerged into an open space; he reached his destination at last.

----

"You are here to ask me a question, Albus Dumbledore."

Albus turned around from the seven statues which he was contemplating when his host surprised him. "Lord Destiny?" he asked, "It is an honour to meet you. Would you care for a Pear Drop?"

"State your question, Albus Dumbledore," Destiny calmly pressed on, ignoring Albus' attempt at civility.

He smells like an old library, Albus thought, eerily aware that Destiny must have known _that_ thought as well. Aloud, he asked, "What must I know of the future, Lord Destiny?"

"This is not the question which you originally planned to ask me," Destiny stated.

"No, it isn't," Albus replied. "I wanted to ask you if Harry – Harry Potter – would defeat Voldemort. An old man's foolish weakness," he started to say; but a moment later – a moment _too_ late – he remembered that he was talking to the oldest entity in the universe. He quickly recovered and said, "Then, I realised that the answer may be in the negative."

"You realise that there are paths which lie outside of my garden," Destiny continued, with the slightest hint of wonder in his even, steady voice.

"Yes, I do." Although the Headmaster of Hogwarts would never admit it to anyone, he found Destiny's manner of speaking only in affirmative sentences more than slightly disconcerting.

(Of course, he consoled himself, the only one who would ever know was Destiny; and Destiny already knew.)

"If I didn't, I could never believe in the fundamental freedom of choice," he continued, "Nevertheless, I maintain that my question stands as it is."

"Yes. You do," Destiny stated. "And now, you will know the consequence of your choice. The answer you seek is this: you must know that Severus Snape will kill you."

The robed figure turned around and resumed its walk through the garden of forking paths; Albus knew that it would be fruitless to call after it now.

He picked a Pear Drop from one of the pockets and settled under the gallery of statues of the Endless. He could probably afford himself a moment's respite, he decided: after all, he would leave the garden of Destiny where and when he must leave it–

His eyes settled on the statue of Dream. There had been those who had claimed that Dream – the previous Dream – had eventually killed his only son out of a sense of duty; or, as some said, a _misguided_ sense of duty–

Albus had never known this for sure either way, and had not even endeavoured to ascertain this; the affairs of the Endless were always their own, and not for mortals to meddle with. But as he sat in the deadly stillness of Destiny's garden, he suddenly realised a simple truth: Destiny had only spoken of the fact, not of the _motive_ behind the fact. What this would turn out to be, Albus did not yet know–

----

And somewhere else in the garden, a gentle breeze fluttered the pages of Destiny's book; and, in the dim red light of the dying sun, the eldest of the Endless read–

"_Severus_... _please_..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Flirting with Death**

There was the Veil.

Then, there was darkness, and silence, and lack-of-smell, and the feel of no return.

And then, she emerged from the darkness.

And Sirius Black could not believe his eyes. Because, let's face it, the lady was _hot_.

----

She walked towards him casually: her hands in the pockets of her black jeans; a silver ankh dangling from her neck, merrily swinging with her each step; a large, cheerful smile on her face and a floppy hat on her head.

"Hello there, handsome," she said.

"Hello there, hot stuff," Sirius replied, "Where have you been my whole life?"

She crooked her head. "Never too far. After all, you've been so relentlessly flirting with me. How could I ever leave you for long?"

Sirius gave out a short, barking laugh. "'That crazy Sirius Black, he has always been courting Death,' they will say. 'And he finally met her,' they will say. Harry told me," he mused, "that he was scared of me when he first saw me. He thought that I was your omen!"

"Did he?" Death took interest. "He's so cute sometimes! He was always so cute, even as a baby–"

"And _you_ would know, wouldn't you?" Sirius interrupted slowly.

Death glared at him, "Now, don't you start giving me this shit about taking away his parents, Sirius. You know this isn't how it works."

Sirius looked away, careful not to meet her eyes. "No," he said, "I suppose it isn't. But, you know, all this," he shrugged, and not finding a proper word, said, "stuff? I really wanted to end it. For Harry's sake. I wanted to be responsible. I really did. He deserved it."

He was silent for a moment, and then asked pleadingly:

"I don't suppose–?" He did not finish.

Death watched him for a moment. "No," she said at last – not perhaps particularly coldly or unemotionally, but still very firmly, "You may leave a ghost of yourself, but _you_ cannot return."

That put Sirius' mind on a new track: he had not thought of that possibility before. "Do you think it would help if I left a ghost?" he asked.

Her black eyes continued to watch him calmly. "No, from my experience, no."

"No, you're right, it wouldn't," Sirius agreed, "He must heal and go on..." Another thought crossed his mind, "He's slated to become very good at it, isn't he?"

Death shrugged. "He's not the first, or the last. But yes, he is."

They were both silent for a moment; and then, Death said, "He will have help, you know."

"Yes," Sirius replied, "Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys and perhaps even Remus–" He broke off, and then added bitterly, "In fact, perhaps he didn't even need his irresponsible failure of a godfather–"

Death glared at him again. "And _now_, you're starting to mope," she said angrily, "You were not a failure, he loved it when you were with him, and you know all this. So, please stop pitying yourself." She sighed, exasperated.

"Yes, m'lady," he said obediently. A peculiar notion occurred to him at that moment: she really did seem to have a lot of experience with it, didn't she?

And then, suddenly, he grinned. Perhaps things would yet turn out well–

He looked at his companion with new eyes and asked, "Well, hot stuff – where now to?"

She took out her right hand from her pocket, put it out towards him, and smiled.

"Take my hand, Sirius Black."

He did.

And then, there was only the sound of her wings.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Nameless One**

There was still time, wasn' there? Yeah, the feast wouldn' start in several hours' time, an' wha' with the firs' years' also goin' in the carriages this year... So, he migh' go an' take Fang an' Buck– Witherwings, tha' is – an' see Grawp in tha' nice cave Dumbledore (great man, Dumbledore) fix'd fer him, an' chat fer jus' a li'l bit, tell him the news abou' Aragog an' all–

It was with these thoughts that Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper and the Professor of Care of Magical Creatures in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry walked towards his cabin, which stood just on the boundaries of the Forbidden Forest.

Once he reached the cabin, he let Fang out – the poor sop would enjoy the exercise – and then, taking hold of his wand in passing, he approached Buckbeak carefully – with all the politeness requisite in dealing with hippogriffs. Buckbeak let Hagrid untie himself; and together, the three headed for the cave.

They reached it; and there, Hagrid suddenly stopped in his tracks.

There was a fire lit just outside the cave.

And Grawp was not alone.

---

"Yes, Grawp, I entirely agree. The view is, indeed, spectacular–"

The man sprawled by the camp fire was undoubtedly a stranger: dressed like a Muggle, redheaded (his long hair was tied into a ponytail, reminding Hagrid a bit of one of the older Weasleys: Bill, his name was, wasn't it?), with an open, honest face and a pleasant baritone voice. But what caught Hagrid's eye was, of course, the man's _size_. The man had to be a half-giant. He simply had to, there was no other possibility!

With Fang at heel and Buckbeak walking next to him (and acutely aware that in the event of a possible confrontation, the hippogriff would be of much more aid than the pooch), Hagrid strode into the tiny clearing in front of the cave.

"Who are yeh?" he demanded of the man. "I don' know yeh. Wha' are yeh doin' here? 'S private prop'rty, Hogwarts' grounds, this is. Show me yer left arm," he ordered.

The redheaded man looked up at Hagrid, obviously amused.

"My good man, is that a _pink umbrella_ you are pointing at me?" he asked.

"Yeh'd better believe it is!" Hagrid nearly yelled out, "Yer left arm, I say!"

The stranger shrugged, and stretched out his left arm for Hagrid's inspection. He was wearing one of those Muggle short-sleeved shirts, and so, his skin was easily visible. Without losing hold of the umbrella, Hagrid clutched the well-muscled arm and studied it closely.

"All righ'," he conceded after a moment, releasing the arm, "Yeh don' have the Mark on yeh. But tha' doesn' mean yeh can' be one of his own."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "One of _whose_ own?" he asked curiously.

Hagrid could not believe his ears. "What, yer daft? _His_." He gulped and added (after all, Dumbledore insisted that they use the name, and he wasn't one to oppose Dumbledore, was he?), "_Voldemort's_. A Death Eater–"

The man blinked, and then laughed. It was a hearty, jovial laugh, and it immediately dissolved all Hagrid's suspicions about the stranger. No Death Eater could laugh like that! They usually sneered, or sniggered, or had some such dastardly laughter–

"A _Death_ _Eater_?" the man sputtered out at last, "I wouldn't want to be near Sister when she heard that one– No, dear Rubeus, I am only a very _hungry_ eater. Will your companions and you join Grawp and me for a bit of grub, and perhaps a sip of Ogden's finest?" He gestured to the fire, where, indeed, Hagrid had already previously espied something cooking. It smelled – not very well, perhaps; but just fine.

In any case, the man's words reminded Hagrid at last that they were not alone by the camp fire. He looked to Grawp; the giant, towering above the bonfire, seemed to be unharmed: he was watching the exchange calmly with his big eyes, making small grunts to himself from time to time.

Fang was still at Hagrid's heel, now slobbering at the smell of food; Buckbeak also had not moved from his place at Hagrid's side. That also helped relieve Hagrid's fears: he somehow felt that Buckbeak would know if the stranger harboured any evil intentions towards Hagrid, or Grawp, or Hogwarts–

And then, as he was about to sit down, he realised something... He had never told the man his name!

"Hold on, how d'yeh know who I am?" he asked, clutching his umbrella tighter.

The stranger looked at him calmly. "_Aren't_ you Rubeus Hagrid?" he asked.

"Well, yeah, I am," Hagrid answered slowly.

The man shrugged. "Then there you have it, Rubeus."

Then, he snorted, as if something amusing had just occurred to him. "'Rubeus,' eh? 'Red'? Between you and me, shouldn't _I_ be called 'red'?" He laughed.

This time, Hagrid laughed with him. "Yeah," he agreed, seating himself by the fire, "Me Da' didn' really hi' the mark wi' tha' one."

"You have a very fine dog, Rubeus," the man said, passing a bottle of Ogden's, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, to Hagrid. The gamekeeper took a large sip out of it and passed it to Grawp, who finished it, "I remember– I had a dog once– Barnabas, he was called–"

Grawp stirred and made a grunt. The man turned his head towards the giant, as if listening to him, and, when Grawp finished, said, "What happened to him? I gave him to my sister. She needed him more than I did."

"I've been travelling for some time with her, later – she had been ill, y'know," the stranger mused aloud, "We've been to this place called San Raphael– Family is important, Rubeus," he finished suddenly, and took another long sip of Ogden's. (Hagrid would have sworn that Grawp had finished it off; must've bin some fine charm on that bottle, he thought.)

"Yeah, I know," he said, looking at Grawp. The giant was sitting quietly at his side of the fire, watching the stranger and Hagrid. The gamekeeper felt happy. In the beginning, he was not really sure about Grawp... but now, his brother was turning out nicely. Perhaps, with time, he could become Hagrid's helper...

"My brother, y'know–" the stranger suddenly started to speak again, "He gave me this–" He fumbled for a moment with something at his side; and then, at last, produced what, to Hagrid, looked like a spotted handkerchief (and not too much unlike his own spotted handkerchief, at that). "Only that it was black then, of course," he added. "He only ever wore black, you know, the miserable suicidal neurotic that he was – you know the type–"

"Yeah, I do," Hagrid agreed, thinking of a certain Potions Master in particular. He was not entirely sure what 'neurotic' meant, but, yeah, it sounded like Snape, all right. The man was all nerves.

"He sought me out," the stranger said, as thought it meant something special to him, which it did not mean to Hagrid, and never could, "That bastard sought me out."

He laughed again; although, this time, it sounded to Hagrid as if he was laughing through tears. Grawp said something again, trying to comfort the stranger; Fang went to him, and licked his face. Even Buckbeak made some small noise.

The man collected himself, and finished, still not altogether without bitterness, "And now, he wears all white."

After a beat, he admitted, "He's a nice kid, actually... He has a hippogriff, although it looks very different from the one you have with you, Rubeus– A hippogriff, and a gryphon, all the way from Arimaspia; that, and a wyvern..."

Hagrid did not find it in his heart to tell the stranger that wyverns did not really exist, that they were only creatures from Muggle legends; and so, whatever creature the stranger's brother had in his keeping, it certainly could _not_ be a wyvern. Still, he was curious to learn more about it–

---

And so they talked, and talked, and talked: about family, and magical creatures, and about whatever else they might think to talk about. The bottle of Ogden's made many passes around the bonfire; and then, at last, Hagrid remembered that such a thing as the Welcome Feast existed.

"I understand," the stranger replied to Hagrid's explanations, "And perhaps I, too, must go, Rubeus. I've stayed in your company long enough..." He looked into the darkness, and then, back to Hagrid. "Let's hope that not overly long," he muttered to himself.

Hagrid felt badly for the man.

"Lis'n, why don' yeh come visit me in me house, sumtime?" he asked, "'S good to talk, yeh know, with another– I'd invite Olympe, too. She's French, yeh know?" he finished with no small dose of personal pride. That such a woman as Olympe should wish to be with him still came as a bit of a surprise.

At that, inexplicably to Hagrid, the stranger suddenly grew serious. "You should _not_ have said this, Rubeus," he said emphatically, "You should _not_ have. No, now I know I have abused your hospitality already–" he said, looking furtively around; Hagrid could not tell what he was searching for.

Then, all of a sudden, the stranger Disapparated; all his belongings disappeared with him. Hagrid felt that it was rather rude: to leave without a word of farewell–

"Well, feel free to drop by anytime yeh want. Fang'll be glad to see yeh," he told the world in general, and, after giving a farewell hug to Grawp, he turned around and headed for the school.

He arrived there just in time to be late for the feast.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sectumsempra**

Desire is perhaps the cruellest of the Endless; or, indeed, perhaps the only one to whom such an appellation may be attached at all.

Desire and Despair are twins. This is an important fact, and must not be forgotten.

Desire and Despair find amusement in playing games with the lives of mortals; or, to put it more precisely, Desire does.

(Despair, as she herself once put it, is never pleased or displeased. She simply is.)

Sometimes in the games, Desire and Despair play on the same side; and sometimes, they play against each other. If they play against each other, they never play to win. There is no satisfaction in the win for Despair, and there is no possibility of a loss for Desire.

Instead, they play until Desire, fickle as always Desire is, bores and drops the toy. If the toy is broken enough, it is then picked up by Despair. (Or, sometimes, by Delirium, who rarely strays far from Desire and Despair.)

Despair is patient.

---

There was once a man who was still a boy; and, perhaps because he was still a boy, he wanted to prove that he was a man. And when he found out that he had chosen the entirely wrong method to prove it, Despair awaited him behind the old, dirty mirror of a haunted bathroom.

As chance would have it and Destiny has always known, Desire was then in his (and her) twin's grey realm, on a matter which does not in the slightest concern this tale. And so, Desire witnessed all the events which followed; and among them, another boy-man's broken claim that he neither wanted nor meant the first boy-man's hurt.

This quite amused Desire, who knew for sure that the boy-man was lying.

The boy-man provided some small diversion for both Desire and Despair in the weeks to come.

(He proved to be an exceptionally fast learner.)

---

Desire is selfish. She (and he) knows that all you have to do is want. To want is to get; Desire cares not for collateral damage.

(That is, if Desire has ever in all eternity known the meaning of the word. And that is not at all certain.)


	6. Chapter 6

**A Touch of Delirium**

Voldemort was in Hogwarts.

Voldemort was in Hogwarts, settled with his circle of Death Eaters in the Gryffindor Tower. He was in no haste to seek Harry Potter out: this time, he knew, Harry Potter would seek him out. And then, he knew, Harry Potter would die.

Harry Potter was in Hogwarts, too.

Harry Potter was in Hogwarts, too, but he was not seeking Voldemort out. He was in Hogwarts, because Professor Sybil Trelawney had made a third prophecy; and Harry Potter decided that he would abide by the prophecy.

Perhaps he had little choice to do otherwise: the last prophecy stated that the last Horcrux – the one Horcrux of which Harry Potter, however much he and his friends had tried, had not managed to learn the slightest bit – was, inexplicably, in Hogwarts, in the Ravenclaw Tower.

And so, Harry Potter was now in Hogwarts, and on his way to the Ravenclaw Tower. He was not alone: he had with him Ron, and Hermione, and Luna Lovegood.

Luna whispered the password which let the four of them into the Tower; then, they ascended a small staircase; and then, they opened the door of the Ravenclaw common room.

And then, they all stopped in surprise.

---

For one thing, there was the matter of the raven.

There were, as Luna later explained to Hermione, openings in the walls of the Ravenclaw common room. They were, of course, charmed, so that the room stayed warm even in the middle of a most frosty winter. Another charm served to prevent birds from flying in.

That explained all, apart from, perhaps, the small matter of the raven.

---

The raven was perched on an armchair in the middle of the room, watching impassively with its hard, black eyes one spot on the floor.

In that spot, Severus Snape half-sat, half-lay, slouching, twitching and trembling; altogether, being in a state which, to a Muggle, would instantly bring to mind an epileptic fit.

---

When the first moment of surprise passed, the time came for rage.

"Snape!" yelled out Harry Potter, reaching for his wand.

"Snape!" Ron Weasley echoed. "But what's he doing?"

"Oh, Ron," Hermione Granger sighed, "It's obvious. Don't you remember Katie Bell, last year? He's under some curse, or jinx–"

"He's finally got his due, hasn't he?" Harry smirked nastily. "Caught in a Dark Arts trap he can't slither out of. Good for him–"

"Oh, Harry, don't be stupid," Hermione sighed again, "How will he answer our questions in this state? Just look at him–"

"_I_ don't have any questions for him, myself," Ron muttered. "Can't we leave him as he is?"

Hermione ignored him, and continued, "I mean, he's clearly in delirium. Not even an Imperius would work here–" She watched the twitching figure with cool, clinical detachment.

"Delirium?" Luna asked from behind them. No one paid her any heed; they all watched Snape.

"He's got something in his hands," Harry observed. The three all approached the former Potions Master as they spoke.

"Don't touch it, Harry," Hermione warned, "That is probably the object which caused the effect."

Ron animated. "Do you think that it might be the Horcrux?"

Hermione frowned. "Perhaps," she admitted reluctantly, "We might try and take it from him to check, I suppose."

"All right," Harry decided, "Ron, I want you to–

---

Busy as the three were with their whispered preparations, they still did not pay any attention to Luna – who, instead, appeared to be amusing herself with a conversation with a voice in her head.

"Of course you can," she said, "But I want to watch. Can I watch?"

"All right," she said a moment later.

---

The next moment, Hermione, who by chance looked in Snape's direction, saw Luna try to remove the cursed object from his tightly clutched hands.

"Luna! No!" she cried out; but it was too late. Luna was already holding the item – which turned out to be a single snow-white raven's feather – and inspecting it curiously.

"Nasty trick. Um. I think," she said. Then, she looked straight at Hermione, and added, "But I don't feel I'm a Luna. Not here."

Hermione gasped.

"What's she on about again?" Ron asked, surprised. "How come she's not Luna? She _is_."

"No, she _isn't_," Hermione replied quietly, "Look at her eyes, Ron–"

"Her eyes?" asked Harry, "What about them– Oh."

Normally, Luna's eyes were a pale blue, in accord with her light skin and hair. But now, only one eye still retained the colour; the other was a vivid emerald green, spattered with moving silver flecks–

"She's possessed," Harry whispered, "By a Slytherin– Voldemort! That's why she–"

"Almost entirely wrong, I'm afraid, Potter," Snape's amused voice sounded from behind Luna. The black figure slowly collected itself from the ground, entirely unmindful of the three wands pointed at it; the raven followed his every move in silence.

Then, to Harry's and Ron's indignant surprise, Snape bowed slightly to Luna Lovegood. "Greetings, Lady Delirium," he said.

In response, the not-Luna launched herself at Snape.

"Severus!" she shouted out, hugging him tightly. Several pink-and-orange butterflies shot out into the air. Harry hissed: the not-Luna was now squarely in his line of fire.

With a suddenly pained look on his wasted visage, Snape extracted himself carefully from the not-Luna's embrace. "Allow me to thank you for your timely intervention–" he began.

"Um. No problem. I. I–" A perplexed look crept onto the not-Luna's face.

"You have a message for me, I believe?" Snape continued casually.

(This was getting weird, Harry thought. No one paid him any heed. Neither Snape nor the not-Luna; neither Hermione nor Ron. The couple had even forgotten their wands; they were engrossed in a discussion of their own–

"So, what is this all about?"

"Oh, Ron, don't tell me that you've never read the _Librum Fulvarum Paginarum_–")

The not-Luna's perplexed look disappeared in another smile. "Yes. I'm to tell you– tell you–" She hesitated, and then suddenly asked, "Do you know what it is when you believe that something is real, only it isn't?"

"That's a delusion," Snape continued, in the same amiable tone, "A state of mind with which Potter here is intimately familiar, I believe."

Harry decided that it was finally the time to act.

"Snape–" he started to speak; and then, suddenly, he felt Hermione's hand on his shoulder. "Shh," she hushed him, "Listen."

In the meantime, the not-Luna perked up. "Perhaps I'll be Delusion one day," she said.

Then, her mood swung back. "Or perhaps not."

"I'll go now, won't I?" she finished hesitantly.

"Lady Delirium," Snape said, now slightly more firmly, "You were about to give me a message."

"Oh, yes. My brother is waiting for you," the not-Luna stated matter-of-factly.

This made Hermione gasp again; and, as Harry noticed with no small satisfaction, appeared to confuse even Snape slightly. "Your _brother_? Are you entirely sure? Not your _sister_? Your _eldest_ sister?"

He looked around and appeared to notice the raven for the first time. His face remained blank and expressionless; but his black eyes, Harry noticed, narrowed for a moment.

The not-Luna shrugged, "No, not really, no. Oh, and here," she said, giving him the white raven's feather, "For you."

Seeing that Snape hesitated a bit before taking the feather, she added, "Don't worry about the thingie in it. I've taken it out and made it into something different. It's here."

She held out the palm of her other hand. Harry strained out to see what lay there.

It appeared to be, of all things, a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean.

Without the slightest hesitation, Snape took it and ate it. "It tastes," he said musingly, "like tears shed at a wake in January, five years ago; and later, at a funeral, a year before."

The not-Luna shuffled her feet. "Um. That's what it is."

"I thank you again," Snape bowed his head again, "Lady Delirium. But Miss Lovegood, I'm afraid–"

"Oh. Um. All right. Bye, Luna!"

"Bye, Delirium!" Luna said.

---

Snape considered the white raven's feather for a moment; and then, suddenly, he said, "Matthew. Tell your master that, as soon as this hysteria is over, I will be ready at the Lord Dream's earliest convenience."

The raven finally moved on its perch.

"All right," it croaked, "He'll be glad to see you, y'know."

Then, just as Harry realised (erroneously, of course) that the raven was not a raven, but an Animagus, the bird spread out its wings and flew out through one of the windows.

And then, Snape looked at Harry. "Still here, Potter?" he sneered with irritation, "Don't you have a Dark Lord to destroy? The story is not over until the hero defeats the villain. That, I believe, is your part. Or is it too much to hope that you be aware even of _that_–"

_Fin_.


End file.
